


Lover

by iamthelightening



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Bartender Stiles Stilinski, Businessman Derek Hale, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Nonmonogamy, Queer Themes, Slow Burn, Trans Allison Argent, Vancouver
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:15:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthelightening/pseuds/iamthelightening
Summary: “Well, lover, what’ll it be?”Derek looked up into a pair of fawn-soft eyes and a wide, cocky smile.“Um…”A year since he’d been here last.  Derek hadn’t dared hope—though he had, of course he had, being here right now meant he had—that the bartender would be the same.“No, wait.  Let me guess.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Lately writing has been both hard and not fun, so I am trying to write a fun, pressure-free thing in the hopes that it might be easy and/or enjoyable??? I am mostly hoping for enjoyable.
> 
> This fic is unbetad, and likely to get explicit. I'll update with tags as I go. 
> 
> :)

Chapter One

Derek entered the building through the side door, too exhausted from his two days of travel to want to interact with any more people. His carry on suitcase rolled easily behind him, and Derek wished he came with wheels. Despite the frequency with which his job required it, he hated flying. Everything from the busy airports full of harried travelers to the too-small aisles on the plane, and the hours and hours of anxious waiting, never certain what unpredictable event might derail his day or how that delay might carry through and effect the days following. 

As the elevator opened Derek heaved a sigh and pulled his suitcase through, hitting the fob on his keychain for the twenty-sixth floor. The doors closed, and he finally let himself relax, sagging back against the mirrored walls and rubbing a hand between his tired eyes. Home was moments away.

Not home, exactly. He let himself into the furnished apartment, tossing the keys onto a table by the door and heading straight for the master bedroom. He left his suitcase by the bed and stripped off his clothes, eager to wash away the last forty-eight hours. 

As usual, the apartment had been stocked for Derek’s arrival. The shower boasted his preferred brands of body care products, and Derek knew when he opened the fridge he’d find the almond milk he liked in his coffee, a couple of tenderloins to grill. 

A hollow sort of home. But Derek supposed that was better than nothing—and he knew he was luckier than most.

Twenty minutes under the hot water and Derek felt a fraction more himself. He eased off the taps and opened the glass door of the shower in a billow of steam. 

Wrapped in a thick robe—the dark navy a match for the bathroom’s plush towels—Derek padded barefoot into the kitchen. Windows dominated the far wall, a sweeping view of the city, downtown glittering darkly in the water. Derek ignored them, flicked the switch for the lights at the same time as he sent the blinds humming down over the windows. 

He opened the fridge and cracked open a beer, downing half the bottle in a single swallow before he had to pull it back with a gasp. He swiped a hand across his lips, faintly embarrassed to have been so sloppy. So eager. 

_Relax_ , he told himself, sprawling onto a couch. _You’re alone. There’s no one here to see you._ That was maybe the hardest part about Derek’s travel—Derek’s work, if he was being honest. He so rarely had guaranteed, uninterrupted time to himself. 

And that was why these next few weeks were so important. He was supposed to be in Seoul, a leadership retreat. Derek had found himself in the airport in Sydney and as they called for his plane to board he… couldn’t. 

So he’d come here, instead. Called no one but the concierge to let them know he was coming. After all, he was supposed to be "off the grid". What did it matter if he chose to do it here instead of there?

He toyed with the beer label, thumb rubbing over and over until a corner peeled up, curled. Derek rolled it tighter—and muttered a curse when the damp paper tore. He kicked his feet onto the coffee table and took a drink. Stared at the inoffensive, off-white curtains that hid him from the world.

Maybe he should have left them open. 

He dropped his head back against the couch. Stared at the inoffensive, off-white ceiling. What was he doing? 

“Really,” he said to himself. “What the fuck are you doing?”

As usual, he had no answer. 

Derek took a moody sip of beer, the local IPA appropriately bitter. 

“You can’t just stay here and talk to yourself the whole time.”

He wouldn’t. Really. He had friends in the city he could call, people far enough removed from Hale Tech that his presence wouldn’t get back to his uncle. 

But people who would ask the same kinds of questions he was asking himself. And unlike himself, they’d expect an answer.

Derek heaved a sigh and heaved himself to his feet. He finished the last of the beer and rinsed the bottle in the sink, placed the empty on the cold marble counter. His fingers drummed against the stone, animated with an energy that the beer wasn’t enough to soothe. 

All he’d wanted for the past two days was to fall into bed in a quiet room and go to sleep. Now that he had a bed in a quiet room, Derek found himself as reluctant to go to sleep as he had been reluctant to board his first flight.

 _Fine_. He was sick of ignoring his body’s instincts. If he’d wanted to stay in but now he wanted to go out, then he’d go out. And if he got out and wanted to go right back in, then he’d do that too. 

Glad he’d showered already, Derek scrubbed a hand over the two-day stubble on his face. He’d leave it. He wasn’t going to put effort into going out. He was simply going to go out and see where the city took him. 

Or maybe go back to bed. Who knew.

The closet, like the kitchen and bathroom, were stocked. A series of dress shirts in various colours, but all Derek’s size, hung alongside an equally muted range of suits. After a brief glance Derek passed them by, headed instead for the dresser where he pulled free a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt. He added a thin leather jacket, also black, and slid his wallet into his jeans as he picked his keys up from the dish by the door. 

He avoided looking at his reflection in the elevator on the way down, not interested in seeing the exhausted bruises under his eyes. In the lobby he headed again for the side exit, but hadn’t moved quick enough not to be noticed by the eagle-eyed concierge, who released the lock on the doors before Derek had a chance to hit the exit button. Derek lifted a reluctant hand in thanks, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, however well-meant, and stepped out into the night.

It had been winter in Sidney, and was summer here. The air was still cool and tinged with rain—the seasons not so different on this particular day. 

Vancouver’s nightlife buzzed around him. The trendy downtown neighbourhood that housed Derek’s apartment was popular with executives and young professionals, expensive tans and expensive teeth gleaming in the orange streetlights as expensive cars zipped past. 

Derek tucked his hands into his pockets and turned away, heading deeper into downtown. He turned onto Davie Street, and even though he was still blocks away from the Village, a knot of tension in his back released. As he headed up the street the apartments became office buildings before turning to convenience stores and then older, cheaper apartments. Rainbow flags began to appear on balconies, in windows. Neon flashed and the pulse of club music vibrated the sidewalk as he walked past. 

He’d known where he was going the second he stepped out of the apartment. Or, if he was being honest, ten seconds after he realized he wasn’t going to be getting on his flight to Seoul.

Deep in the heart of Davie Village, one winding staircase up from Jim Deva Plaza, was Lover. 

Derek gave his ID to the bouncer out front. The burly Black man took his time studying, and after a tense moment where Derek began to sweat, wondering if this whole thing wasn’t his _worst idea ever_. But with one last scrutinizing look, the man returned his ID and gestured him up the stairs. Derek swallowed and forced himself not to take them two at a time. 

At the top, he pushed open the heavy wooden door inscribed with a single _L_ , and took the first real breath he’d had in months.

Coloured lights spun, a trans flag hung proudly behind the bar. The small dance floor throbbed with bodies moving to a delirious pop beat. In the lounge, couples and throuples sat close, their body language relaxed and comfortable, at ease in a way Derek recognized. In concession to the light rain, only one of the patio doors stood open, and beyond Derek could see the lushly ferned patio and the twinkle of lights, a flash of colourful clothing. 

There were a few open seats along the bar, and Derek made for one on the end. As he sat himself onto the stool the bartender slapped down a heart-shaped coaster in front of him.

“Well, lover, what’ll it be?”

Derek looked up into a pair of fawn-soft eyes and a wide, cocky smile. 

“Um…” 

A year since he’d been here last. Derek hadn’t dared hope—though he had, of course he had, being here right now _meant_ he had—that the bartender would be the same.

“No, wait. Let me guess.” The bartender tilted his head, considering. 

Derek held absolutely still and wished with an ache so fierce it hurt, to be _seen_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetad! All mistakes are my own. If there are any tags / warnings you think I've missed please let me know.
> 
> :)

Chapter Two

“Negroni.”

Derek actually felt his jaw fall open. “Um.”

“I knew it.” The bartender snapped his fingers, pleased with himself. 

“I didn’t—” Derek hadn’t said whether the bartender had been right.

“Oh?” The bartender stopped in the act of reaching for a glass. “Are you about to tell me I’m wrong?” The impish gleam in his eyes said he knew he wasn’t.

“No,” Derek said, after a pause. His palms were damp with sweat. He rubbed them against his jeans under the lip of the bar. “You’re a good guesser.” His voice came out strange and oddly hoarse. He resisted the urge to rub his throat. He felt rusty, alien. 

The bartender poured Derek’s drink onto ice and added a twist of peel. He set the glass of shimmering, red-orange liquid onto the heart-shaped coaster in front of Derek. “It’s not a guess,” he said as Derek reached for the drink.

Derek’s fingertips paused, tips just brushing the cold glass.

“I remember you.”

Derek closed his hand around the drink and willed the ice into his own veins.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” The bartender leaned his elbows across the bar. Derek could smell the spice of his body wash—some cheap and drugstore brand. Derek would bet Axe, with a ridiculous name like _Sex Panther_ or something. He wondered how hard it would be to track down. If now that he had the scent he could find it again. 

“It was last year. A miserable night in February. February is always miserable, here. Pissing down rain.” The bartender winked. “I see you’ve brought the weather with you again.”

“I—” Derek fumbled his words. He remembered the miserable night in February. Had seen the neon pink logo _Lover_ every time he’d closed his eyes for weeks after. It seemed impossible to believe that he was back here again, the same logo beaming at him from the bartender’s baby blue muscle T, cut low enough in the sides to give a tantalizing glimpse of tanned ribcage.

The bartender’s eyes searched his for a moment. “Take a moment lover, settle in.” He reached across the bar to give Derek’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

Derek’s heart seized in his chest, his entire focus on the heat of the bartender’s solid palm against his skin. The electricity of it tightened his throat, closed it down so all Derek could do was nod—a jerky, abrupt movement.

The bartender gave him another squeeze before sliding down the bar to pick up an animated conversation with another customer, capable hands moving in a blur as he mixed their drink.

Derek let out a long-held breath. He reached for his glass and took a steadying sip. The bitter sweet drink weighed heavy on his tongue, the taste flooding in like a memory. _Cold, pounding rain and the dizzying heat of alcohol in his veins. The line of the bartender’s throat as he laughed, the touchable softness of his rose gold sweater. His gaze held against Derek’s, both a question and a challenge._

Derek slid his fingers along the smooth surface of the bar. He willed his jittery nerves to calm. This fluttering in his chest was different than the anxious beat he was used to—a sweetness to this agony that bordered on pleasure. 

One night a year ago he’d stumbled into the bar, drunk after dinner with his uncle and several important clients. In an effort to survive the evening Derek had swallowed glass after glass of red wine, and when he’d finally been able to make his escape all he’d wanted to do was feel safe.

It hadn’t always been so hard. Derek had come out quietly in his early twenties, leaving college with a respectful boyfriend. When that relationship ended, he took an appropriate amount of time to himself before being set up through a work colleague. He and Isaac moved in together after a year, found a charming townhouse and hosted dinner parties. Derek’s work friends mingling with Isaac’s, an acerbic group of academics. 

They’d played house until it became evident the game was no longer fun. Derek was spending longer and longer at work simply to not be at home, and Isaac’s only outlet for his frustration was to pick a fight any time he was. 

The American election happened shortly after the breakup, and Derek’s _love-is-love_ , respectful, _I’m-just-like-you_ gayness became suddenly and abruptly queer. The raw truth of his precarious position in the world, and the absolute privilege he had even there, was like sandpaper rubbing into an open wound. 

He reacted poorly. Doubled down on being _just like them_. Successful, handsome Derek Hale. A safe gay. A friendly gay. The kind you want dating your nephew—though never, of course, your son.

It chafed, scraped knives over every nerve. He forced it as long as he could, until one oilman’s scathing mockery of a lisping gay was one too many, and he’d fled after dinner, nearly weeping to Vancouver’s West End.

Embarrassed for the cliché he was, Derek had trodden slowly in his sodden suit up Davie Street, tears masked by the cold torrent of rain. Crying made him feel more humiliated, more broken, and he wished for any other outlet for the impotent rage and sick ache of fear that he’d been carrying for so long. 

By the time he reached the Plaza, Derek had calmed enough that the water on his face was truly rain. He stood in the centre of the Plaza, closed his eyes and felt the hum of the Village surround him. Even on a night so ugly there was a pulse he felt here that he never experienced anywhere else. A living thrum of energy that rain could not hope to dampen.

When he’d finally opened his eyes, _Lover_ blazed at him with a flirty invitation. Derek’s feet moved unbidden, and before he knew it he was pulling himself up the stairs.

“How’s that drink?”

Derek snapped back to the present. “Perfect.” Exactly like he remembered. “You changed your hair.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” The bartender ran a hand over his short buzz of brown hair. “It’s cool for the summer, you know?”

Derek wanted to feel the bristle against his fingers, the weight and shape of the other man’s head under the palm of his hand. Instead he balled his hand into a fist under the bar, scared again of his own desires. “Right,” he said, though he didn’t know, having never worn a buzz cut. 

“Where are you coming from this time?”

Derek licked his lips. What had he said when he was here last? Parts of that night were emblazoned crystal-clear across his memory, and others blurred and stretched. “Sydney.” 

“Australia?”

“Yeah.” 

“Crikey.”

Derek snorted a laugh at the bartender’s terrible Aussie accent.

“Was it raining down under?”

“Actually… yes,” Derek admitted.

“Well, there you go.” The bartender’s dimples flashed. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

“Derek.” Derek took Stiles’s offered hand. “I’m sorry if I didn’t remember from last time.”

“Don’t worry about it, _Derek_.” Stiles slid a teasing thumb across his own bottom lip. “I don’t think we got to names.”

Derek stiffened.

“Easy, easy.” Stiles laughed, spreading his hands disarmingly. “I’m glad you came back. Enjoy the drink. Check out the dance floor, or the patio. And come find me when you need another.” 

Derek frowned at his glass. He hadn’t planned to move from his spot at the bar. But it would be weird now to stay, wouldn’t it? He took too long with his response, and by the time he looked back up Stiles was gone, leaning across the bar to finger the rhinestone strap of a woman’s bra.

Holding onto his frown and his glass, Derek slung his leather coat over his shoulder and made for the patio. Like hell he’d be checking out the dance floor. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What up this baby is unbeta'd and thrilled to be here. 
> 
> Happy holidays!

Chapter Three

“He came back.”

“What?” Lydia sat bolt upright. “Really?”

“Who did?” Allison asked lazily from beneath the wide brim of her sun hat. 

“ _He_ did,” Lydia emphasized, her eyes still wide and delighted on Stiles’s face. “Right? Him. That’s who you’re talking about.”

“Who is ‘ _him_ ’??” Irritation edged Allison’s tone. She hated being left out of anything. 

“Sex Beard!” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Who else?”

Stiles groaned. “Don’t call him that.”

“Oh shit.” Now Allison joined Lydia, sitting upright to get a better view of Stiles’s face. “How long has it been, like a year?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Stiles rubbed a hand over the crown of his head, looked out at the water. 

“Well?” Lydia thwacked Stiles with her magazine ( _The Canadian Journal of Mathematics, Vol. 70_ ). “What happened?”

“Did you kiss again? Was it as good this time? Did you get his number?”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at Allison over the top of his sunglasses. She shut up but gave him the finger, her carefully manicured nail painted teal to match her bikini bottoms. 

“He was sober, for one.”

“Stiles you work at a bar. You’re a bartender. Your whole job is to make sure handsome men are not-sober.”

Stiles made a face. “But like, in a consensual fashion Lyds.”

She pulled her own face. “Obviously! Ew. Anyway—so you chivalrously did not push any booze on him—”

“I made him a drink. Same as last time.” Stiles couldn’t fight the pull of his lips, the memory of his first encounter with the handsome, tragic, mysterious figure still enough to bring a smile. The man—Derek, as Stiles now knew—limping through the doors of _Lover_ looking for all the world like a drowned rat. If that rat was six feet tall and had a face sculpted by baby angels. Stiles was no angel but he was well versed in providing comfort to those in need. And in his two years working at _Lover_ , he’d had yet to see someone more in need than the sad, sexy man who’d slid his soaked ass onto Stiles’s barstool that cold night in February. 

“And then?”

Stiles caught his tongue between his teeth. “I sent him to the patio.”

“The p— Stiles!” Lydia thwacked him again. “Stiles you don’t work on the patio.”

“I know that.” Stiles rubbed at his arm where the magazine’s slap had stung. “But I couldn’t focus when he was like _right there_.”

It had taken a great deal of willpower for Stiles to slide Derek’s drink across the counter and then step away. He’d spent more time over the last year than he cared to think about wondering what had become of the sexy bearded man who’d come in with the storm. 

“Besides,” Stiles continued. “I can’t, like, be his only person at _Lover_. That’s not sustainable.”

“Right. Because you have so many other suitors occupying your time.”

Now it was Stiles’s turn to give Allison the finger. 

“What?” She tossed her hair. “You’ve been brooding about your mysterious Sex Beard for over a year and he finally steps back into your bar and you _send him to the patio_? So he can find another ‘person’?”

Stiles had to admit that when Allison said it, it sounded dumb. 

“Look—” How could he explain to her that there were certain things about his job he just _knew_. Like when to push that extra bit of intimacy onto someone, or when to step back and let them offer. More than half of his job behind the bar was about reading people, anticipating their needs, being one step ahead of their desires. Last night had been the same. As much as Stiles wanted to ignore everyone else in the bar in favour of the man who’d just walked in, he knew that level of focus and attention would be way too much. “It was fine,” he said. “He’ll be back.”

“Will he?” Lydia pulled her sunglasses down her nose to look at Stiles. “It sounds like he came back only to be brushed off by his favourite bartender.”

“It wasn’t a brush off!” Stiles said hotly, his face reddening. 

“Did he stay for another drink?” Allison’s question was softer this time. 

“No.” Stiles lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “But it wasn’t about that.” He spread his fingers out in the hot sand, pushed them down until his hand was buried and cool underneath. How was he supposed to explain that _Lover_ wasn’t about a person, but a place? Stiles might have been what drew Derek back a second time, but he couldn’t be what had him coming back a third. Because Stiles was just a person, and people let you down all the time. Places—places could hold you as long as you needed. Not all of them, but some. And _Lover_ was one of those places. 

“What was it about?”

Stiles shook his head, not finding the words. He couldn’t…. He didn’t want to jinx it. Whatever ‘it’ was. The magnetic pull he felt towards a relative stranger, the certainty he felt that the pull was mutual, and the bone-deep understanding that it was so _so_ delicate. 

“Oh jeeze, look at him.” Lydia flopped back to her beach towel. “Our boy is in love.”

“Shut up.” Stiles opened the cooler and tossed each of them a fresh can of cider. “I love you.”

“We know.” Allison grinned, catching Lydia’s eye and holding it. “We can share.”

“I _know_ you can share.” Stiles was an occasional guest star in the porno that was Allison and Lydia’s sex life. 

“Sex Beard better be able to,” Lydia warned.

“Derek.”

“What?”

“Derek. His name is Derek.”


End file.
